Imperfect
by generalsleepy
Summary: Micky/Davy fluff


Davy tugged another record out of overstuffed box and held it up so that the light shown off of the glossy sleeve. "How about this one?" he said.

Micky glanced over his shoulder without much effort, then took the record out of the other man's hands to examine it more carefully. He frowned thoughtfully, flipping the record over to read the liner notes. "I dunno. Never heard of the group." He squinted at the small, exclamation point dotted print. "Hey, Dave?"

"Hm?"

"Where's Sioux Falls? That's Minnesota, right?"

Davy shook his head. "One of the Dakotas, I think."

"Up Dakota or Down Dakota?" Micky asked, failing to control a grin at his own joke.

Regardless, Davy burst out laughing, which made Micky laugh as well, until they were both giggling uncontrollably. Thankfully, the record shop was mostly empty, so they were freed suspicious, awkward looks.

Micky handed the album back to Davy. "Nah. Let's keep looking."

"All right." Davy tried to return the unwanted record to its place as gently as possible. "We've got all day, after all.

That they did. Just the thought made Micky grin openly. As planned, Mike had left early that morning to drive up to Ventura, to pick up an old amp that a friend of a friend was giving away for free. The promise of three weeks' laundry duty from Micky had persuaded Mike to bring along a cheerfully amenable Peter on the two or so hour drive.

Mike grumbled a bit, but Micky didn't take him seriously for a second. Despite Mike's occasional show of exasperation, those two got along better than almost anyone; they seemed to understand each other on a deep, frankly bizarre and incomprehensible, level. In any case, they would certainly keep each other busy for four hours in a car.

And the upshot of the whole setup was that Micky got to spend a whole day alone with Davy.

_Ha, ha!_

It wasn't as if he didn't spend a lot of time with Davy normally. They lived in the same house and played in the same band, with which they spent ninety percent of their free time.

However, days like this were different. This was what Micky gleefully thought of as "boyfriend time." Yeah, he loved Peter and Mike, like brothers, but he _loved_ Davy, definitely _not_ like a brother.

Even though the other two were perfectly all right with their relationship—their reactions ranging from Mike's easygoing indifference to Peter's rhapsodic enthusiasm—things were still different with them there. Micky liked to have time with just the two of them, free for a day to do whatever they wanted.

Including bumming around hole-in-the-wall record stores, as they were occupied doing that day.

Davy pulled another record from one of the haphazard bins near the back of store marked _Sale_. He examined the record for a moment without letting Micky see. He opened it to read the liner notes, and then pulled a face of distaste and moved to put the record back.

"Hey, what's that one?" Micky asked, trying to stoop to an angle where he could see the cover without it obscured by glare from the blazing sun outside the windows.

"Some weird, crunchy folk guy with a beard bigger than our heads and an acoustic guitar that's supposed to be cool, because it's so terrible," Davy explained eloquently.

Perusing the cover art of the crazy-eyed, old prospector looking musician, Micky had to agree with his friend's assessment. "That it is," he said sagely.

"Oh, read the lyrics printed on the inside."

Micky opened the record and read for a moment. His eyes widened. "'I wish that people all understood,'" he read in a deadpan. "'We could make the earth all bright and good, with enough drink and food'" He looked up at Davy in horror. "Forget I asked."

Davy laughed again. Micky felt something oversized and glowing settle into his chest at the sight. Sometimes he thought that being able to make Davy laugh was better than sex. The only thing that made him feel more deliriously, un-defeatably happy was when Davy made him laugh.

There was nothing sexier than a man with a sense of humor.

"Ooh!" Davy's face lit up in excitement and he tugged another record out, holding it up happily. "We're getting this one."

"What is it?" Micky stood on his toes to examine the cover, showing three guys in suits standing around an old drum kit. He scanned the band name. "Never heard of 'em."

"English band from the fifties. Used to love 'em when I was a little kid. I swear, you'll totally love them. Promise."

"Okay, okay. How much is it?"

"Five bucks?"

Micky shrugged. "We should be able to pay for it. We might have to sell Mike's blood, but…"

Davy laughed again. Micky grinned like an idiot.

The record was swiftly paid for and bagged by a bored looking clerk. They wandered out into the street, wincing in the bright sunlight. Micky swung the bag back and forth, enjoying the crinkle of plastic.

They walked in a determinedly crooked line down the sidewalk. Davy balanced on the very edge of the curb, arms occasionally swinging up to keep him from falling. The fat, orange setting sun made a halo around his tousled brown hair.

In a perfect world, Micky would have taken Davy's hand, pulled him back from the dangerous curb, and pressed a kiss to the side of his head as they walked aimlessly into the sunset, as any other couple would. And, in a perfect world, no one would have batted an eye at that.

But, in this imperfect world, as fun as it sometimes was, something like that would get them arrested or beaten up or some combination of the two.

And that would be a very not-nice thing to have end a very nice day.

"Hey, Mick."

"Yeah?"

Davy stepped away from the curb and sidled over to Micky. "You wanna head back to the Pad?"

"Oh!" Micky whined. "But, it's not even dark yet! We could still—"

"I mean," Davy interrupted patiently, "before Mike and Peter get back?" He raised both eyebrows in his patented 'David-Jones-exceedingly-unsubtle-innuendo-double-eyebrow-lift' maneuver.

"_Oh_." Micky grinned.

_Works every time_.

"Sure, let's head back."

"Groovy." Davy gestured toward the record Micky was carrying. "But, we're listening to at least that first track before anything else."

Micky sighed and rolled his eyes.

It was an imperfect world, with imperfect people in it, but there were still obscure old records and jokes and Davy Jones. Micky Dolenz could live with that.

He watched as the sun was smothered in clouds of orange-pink smog, and smiled.


End file.
